Better Not To Know
by DisposalUnit
Summary: (Warning: Character Death) After arriving too late to save Finch, Fusco tries to keep Reese's self-inflicted mental and emotional wounds to a minimum.
1. Chapter 1

Fusco sat heavily in the driver's seat, pulling the door closed with barely enough force for it to latch. The remaining dried blood in the crevices of his knuckles was flaking off, his hands still trembling slightly. In the enclosed space, the stink of his shirt, front soaked with drying blood and bowel, hit him hard. He leaned forward and stripped it off, not bothering with buttons, throwing it behind him toward the backseat.

It landed right as John began to get in. Lionel watched in his rear-view mirror as John paused in the normally smooth, fast maneuver to gingerly move it aside. Instead of looking forward at Fusco, John continued to stare sadly at the saturated shirt.

"Sorry. I shoulda known you'd be here." Fusco took a handful of tissues from the glove compartment and began the task of dabbing as much blood as he could from his undershirt and chest. "They offered me some scrubs, but I just wanted out of there."

"What happened, Lionel?"

The calmness in John's voice sent a chill down Fusco's spine. John blamed him. _Shit._ "I got there as fast as I could. I did everything I could think of. I tried to save him. I really did." Despite the soft voice, the piercing blue-gray eyes in the rear-view could have stared down death itself. It was the gaze of a man who had killed countless times and would kill again. "Look, you can't blame me for this! It was-"

"I'm not blaming you, Lionel. I just want information. Tell me everything that happened. Everything you saw."

Relief for himself was, strangely, replaced by concern for Reese. According to Carter, the guys responsible were dead already. There were no clues to be revealed from the play-by-play. No one else was at risk. There was really no reason Reese would need the details, except… "You're not much for post-mission debriefings. So I guess you just want to know what he went through?"

"That's right."

"I know you're used to knowing everything about everyone. But please, if you've ever trusted me at all, trust me on this." He looked down at his lap, trying to suppress the images of the room, of the mutilated victim, that kept popping back into his mind. "It's better for you not to know the details."

"Tell me, Lionel…" The ex-op's voice had a tone of warning. "I need to know."

"For what possible reason, other than to torture yourself?" Fusco turned around to physically face Reese. "Believe me, if telling you what I saw would erase it from _my_ mind, I would!"

He turned back to the steering wheel, running his fingers over it, trying to bury the flashes of tactile memory that he would never be able to forget- The slick blood. The spilled viscera as he tried to stuff them back where they belonged. The broken bones moving under flesh. The burned-crisp skin against his arms and chest as he carried the man out so that the EMTs would reach him that much sooner. "I'd hand these memories off for my own sanity, so that _I_ might be able to sleep at night. Jesus, I wish it did work that way."

Reese leaned closer, his face mere inches behind Fusco's head. And then, for the first time in Fusco's experience, he raised his voice. "Tell me!"

"Look, I know you've seen some fucked-up shit. Way more and way worse than I ever have or ever will. But there's no reason you should be burdened with the knowledge when it's Finch we're talking about. Please believe me that you don't want to know!"

"I can hear it from you, or I can be done with you and wait for the coroner's report," John replied in a near-whisper again. Somehow, the transition from shouting to whispering was even more frightening than the opposite.

Fusco gulped. "Wait for the report, then. You want to torture yourself, I'm not gonna help."

With a glance in the rear-view, at Reese's cold-as-steel eyes, he was suddenly very deeply afraid that the ex-op's cracking stone facade might explode, that Reese might tear his throat out bare-handed for such disobedience. Such presumption, to think he knew what was best for John Reese.

_God damn it. What am I doing? The Jiminy Cricket inside me must have a death-wish._ Fusco's mouth went dry as sand as he gazed at the reflection of those eyes and anticipated the worst.

After several moments, Reese broke the staring contest by turning without a blink, and began to get out. Fusco sighed with relief. But something in Fusco, something very brave and very stupid, made him suddenly turn around to face the ex-op again.

"Wait."

John stopped, still facing the car door. To Fusco's amazement, he was actually waiting.

"You're lookin' to swallow a hot coal, John. And it's gonna keep burning you till the day you die. Please, don't let your good memories get overwhelmed by the ugly end."

John still hadn't moved or looked at the detective. "Thanks for the psychotherapy session, Lionel," he spat, the sarcasm biting. He opened the door and exited the vehicle, striding away into the shadows of the hospital parking garage.

Fusco got out as well, standing with one foot still in the car, and shouted after him. "No one wants to be remembered for the way they died, Reese. Remember his life."

If Reese heard him, he didn't acknowledge it.


	2. Chapter 2

Reese had to squint to make out the tags on the morgue drawers. Bleary eyes and lack of sleep didn't make focusing easy. The flashlight illumination in a pitch-black room didn't help, either.

Bottom row, third from the left. John Doe. _I never found out what your real name was, Harold. How strange that you're now another John._

The metal door swung open with minimal effort, revealing feet covered by the white body bag. John swallowed back the ache in his throat and pulled the platform drawer out to its fullest extent.

Flashlight gripped in his teeth, hands gingerly holding the zipper-pull and the surrounding material, he paused to prepare himself to open the bag and see what remained of his friend, every mark, every wound testimony to the myriad ways that Finch had suffered horribly.

Fusco's words echoed in his mind. _Hot coal. Burning till the day you die._

No, he owed Finch. He hadn't been able to find him in time, and the least he could do was to know.

Flashes of past horrors invaded his thoughts. People being tortured. Broken. Sobbing, shaking wrecks of people, every shred of humanity torn from them as they screamed until their voices were hollow whistles. Beaten, skinned, shocked, burned until they didn't try to scream anymore, souls crushed beyond even having the will to react to pain. And often until no more breath left their miserable, shattered bodies.

That had been Finch for a time- too long- but it was over now.

Finch wasn't in pain any more.

John stopped fighting the tears and let them flow, releasing a shuddering breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. He realized that he couldn't bear to make that ghost of Finch that still existed in his mind suffer like he'd suffered at the end of his life, over and over, in agony, for as long as John lived.

No, the Finch in John's mind should forever be writing code, reading his beloved books and being the quiet hero that he was.

His hands fell from the white Tyvek shroud, still closed. The unbroken barrier would keep the soul-searing details apart from his cherished memories of the brilliant, brave and selfless Harold Finch.

The ex-op took the flashlight from his mouth and pointed it upward, beam bouncing off the institutional drop-ceiling to illuminate his immediate surroundings in a soft glow. He gently placed a hand, palm flat, on the chest of the covered figure.

"Goodbye, Harold," he whispered, his voice breaking with sorrow. "And thanks for everything."


	3. Chapter 3

A nickel fell and spun on the greasy formica table, inches from Fusco's coffee cup, as John Reese sat down across from the detective.

Fusco eyed him warily "What's this for?"

"Just paying your fee for providing psychiatric help, Lionel," John said quietly, corners of his mouth curling up slightly. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, like he'd either been pepper-sprayed or had been crying a river.

"What, like Lucy? Should I set up an office at a lemonade stand now?"

"I'd write you a good review on Yelp." More curling of lip-corners. Oddly, Fusco couldn't detect any sarcasm.

"...Good. Glad something I said helped."

The waitress approached with a coffee pot and John turned the cup in his place setting right-side-up. The two men sat together in silence, coffee steaming and almost managing to cover up the stale stink of the place.

Fusco rolled bits of his paper napkin between his fingers anxiously. "You have my condolences. I'm really sorry for your loss."

Reese didn't look at him, scanning the room, always on the lookout for a possible threat. "Thank you."

The waitress returned. "You want anything to eat?" She left in a huff upon learning they weren't hungry.

"So." Fusco cleared his throat. "Are you staying on? Gonna keep doing what you do?"

John nodded and slurped a sip, cooling it just enough that it wouldn't burn his mouth. Silence, then not. "When Root had Finch, my priority was to save him. He can't be saved now. All I can do is keep doing the job he started."

Fusco nodded back. "That's good to hear. That you're staying on, I mean."

"How are you holding up?"

The detective looked at him questioningly, if not disbelievingly.

"Are you able to sleep at night?" John prodded.

Fusco swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "I wake up a lot." He looked away and took a long drink from his coffee. "I… I have nightmares."

Reese nodded. "Same here. But mine are thankfully lacking in detail. Lionel, I really am glad you were trying to watch my back, to keep my mind safe from myself. I'm glad I listened to you." A half-smile from Fusco, and he continued. "And I'm sorry you experienced what you did. It's worse when it's someone you know."

"I liked him and all. Respected him a lot. But, y'know, I can't say that I knew him."

Reese actually grinned. "Not sure that I did either. Not entirely. But we both knew the substance of the man, if not the specifics."

Fusco raised his cup. "To Finch."

"To Finch." Clink. "And may he forgive us for toasting his memory with a drink he hated."

It was the first time the two had laughed together.

Fin


End file.
